The driver let us off at the front steps, we collected our bags from the trunk, and I paid him.
As the taxi pulled away, I said to Susan, “They might not have any rooms.”
“Money talks.”
We carried our bags up the wide steps, through a set of screen doors, and into the lobby.
The lobby was very run-down and sparse, but had fifteen-foot ceilings with crumbling plaster moldings, and an air of having once been elegant. Along the right-hand wall was a long counter with a keyboard on the wall, and behind the counter sat a young clerk, asleep in a chair. Susan asked me, “So, is this it?”
I looked through an arched opening off the left side of the lobby and saw the dining room, more faded elegance, and open French doors that led to the veranda. I nodded. “This is it.”
“Great.”
Susan hit the desk bell, and the clerk jumped like he’d just heard the whistle of an incoming round.
He composed himself, and he and Susan began the negotiations. Susan turned to me and said, “Okay, he says he has only expensive rooms left. He has two on the third floor. Each room has its own bath, and hot water in the morning. They’re big rooms, but big is relative here. He wants seventy-five bucks a night for each room, which is a joke, and I offered him two hundred each for the week. Okay?”
Last time I was here, the army paid, and this time, the army was still paying. I said, “Fine. You staying the week?”
“No, but I made a better deal for the two weekly rates. He wants dollars.”
I took out my wallet and began counting out four hundred dollars, but Susan said, “I’m paying for my own room.”
“Tell this guy I was here during the war, and they had hot water 24/7, and the place was a lot cleaner when the American army ran it.”
Susan informed me, “I don’t think he cares.”
We filled out registration cards and showed our passports and visas, which the guy absolutely insisted he had to hold on to by law. Susan gave him ten dollars instead.
We each gave him two hundred dollars, and he gave us receipts for a hundred dollars, which was interesting math. He gave us each a key, then hit his bell, and a bellboy appeared. The kid looked about ten, but he managed to get Susan’s backpack on and carry my suitcase up three flights of stairs. As we climbed the stairs, Susan asked, “Is the elevator broken?”
“The elevator runs fine, but it’s not in this building. It’s in that nice new place next door.” I added, “You can stay there, if you’d like. I have to stay here.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to complain. This is actually quite… charming. Quaint.”
We got up to the third floor. The hallways were wide, and the ceiling was high. Above each door was a screened transom to provide for cross-ventilation.
We came to my room, Number 308, and the kid went in with the luggage.
Susan and I followed. The room was actually big and held three single beds, as though it were still an R&R hotel for soldiers. Each bed had a wooden frame around it, from which hung mosquito netting. I remembered the mosquito netting from last time. Nostalgia is basically the ability to forget the things that sucked.
The plain stucco walls were painted a strange sky blue, and there was an odd assortment of floor fans, lamps, and cheap modern furniture arranged haphazardly around the large floor space. A paddle fan hung from the high ceiling, which was also painted blue.
The evidence that the Americans had once been here was a lot of electrical wiring in metal channels running along the walls to standard American electrical outlets, which now had adapters plugged into them to accept Asian-made appliances. Yes, this was definitely the place.
I said, “Well… not bad.”
Susan, trying to be a sport, said, “Great mosquito netting.”
I opened the louvered doors to the balcony, letting in a nice sea breeze.
We stood on the balcony, looking out across the front lawn, the circular drive, and the ornamental pool, to the palm-lined white beach across the road. I could see a lot of chaise lounges on the beach, but not a lot of people around.
Susan said, “Look at that water and that beach and those mountains and those islands out there. This was a good idea to come to Nha Trang. Okay, I’ll go to my room and unpack and get cleaned up.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s say drinks on the veranda at six. Is that okay?”
I said, “Make it six-thirty. I have to drop by the Immigration police station, and tell them where I’m staying.”
“Oh… do you want me to come with you?”
“No. I’ll see you on the veranda at six-thirty. If I’m late, don’t be overly concerned, but if I’m very late, then make inquiries.”
“Let them know you’re traveling with someone. They’re not as likely to try anything if they know you aren’t alone.”
“I’ll see how it plays. You may have noticed that there’s no telephone in the room. So, if I need to call you, I’ll have the front desk look for you. Let them know where you’ll be.”
“Okay.” She looked at her key and said, “I’m in 304.”
“I need to get some photocopies made.”
“Post office. Buu dien.”
“See you later.”
She left with the bellboy, and I stayed on the balcony, looking at the sea.
It was hard to believe that not so many days ago, I was on the other side of that water and across a wide continent.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I always knew I would come back to Vietnam. And here I was.
The sleepy desk clerk called a taxi for me. I went outside and within a minute one pulled into the circular driveway. I got in and said, “Buu dien. Le Bureau de poste. Post office. Biet?”
He nodded and off we went to the buu dien in the center of town, about a ten-minute drive. I told the cab driver to wait, and I went inside. For a thousand dong, about ten cents, I had three copies each made of my passport and visa, and three copies of Colonel Mang’s note.
I got back into my taxi and told the driver, “Phong Quan Ly Nguoi Nuoc Ngoi.” I guess I got that right because a few minutes later, we pulled up to the Immigration police station, instead of a bottled water vendor. The cabbie pantomimed that he’d wait down the block.
The police station was a modest stucco building with an open archway instead of a door. The waiting room was light and airy, and was populated with the usual suspects — backpackers and Viet-Kieus, trying to deal with bureaucratic stupidity and laziness.
This little police facility seemed a lot more informal than the forbidding Ministry of Public Security in Saigon, and there were bicycles in the waiting room as well as sand on the floor from the beach.
I presented photocopies of my visa and passport to a bored-looking policeman sitting at a desk in a small alcove, and showed him a copy of my note from Colonel Mang. He read it, picked up his phone, and called someone. He said to me, “Sit.”
I stood.
A minute later, another uniformed guy came into the room, ignored me, and took the note from the desk guy and read it. Then he looked at me, and said in passable English, “Where you stay?”
“Grand Hotel.”
He nodded, as though the Grand Hotel had already called and reported my presence, and most probably the presence of my traveling companion as well. I was also sure that Mang had alerted the Immigration Police to my expected visit.
The guy asked me, “You here with lady?”
“Meet lady on train. Not my lady.”
“Yes?” He seemed to buy this, probably because of the separate rooms.
The cop said to me, “You stay one week.”